


Days Go By

by enigma731



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3533216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s gotten to be a pattern, weaving in and out of each other’s lives, nothing but silence in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Go By

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the flash fic prompt "it's another tequila sunrise."
> 
> This is sort of a blended canon--Mostly MCU, but keeping Clint as Bobbi's ex instead of Lance Hunter. Thank you to [queenofthepuddingbrains](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthepuddingbrains/works) for beta and brainstorming!

1.

On the spectrum of bad places Clint’s found himself, he thinks the S.H.I.E.L.D.-appointed lawyer’s office ought not to even rank. He’s not about to be killed, nobody’s shooting at him--hell, he even has comfy chair to sit in.

Of course, all of that’s overlooking the small detail that he’s here to put the final nail in the coffin of his marriage, that the attorney is currently explaining the exact terms of the papers that will mark one more failure, one more loss. Bobbi is sitting ramrod straight in the chair beside him, though she seems far more engaged in what the lawyer is saying, perfectly composed and focused, the way she always is on an assignment, as if this task might be no different from any other.

Clint sets his jaw and tunes out as much of the appointment as possible, because what’s the point, really? He doesn’t much care about the legal terms, the financial agreements--that’s never been important to him. So he stays quiet, signs where he’s told, and calls it a victory when he gets to walk out with his dignity intact.

Outside, though, it’s harder to keep up the act, harder to pretend that the world doesn’t feel just a bit emptier now, though rationally he knows things have been over for weeks.

“So,” says Bobbi, turning to face him so that her silhouette is backlit by the office’s sign in the failing daylight, the word _Divorce_ hanging above her head as though some sick higher power feels the need to provide reminders.

“So,” Clint echoes, and it strikes him that she’s preparing to say goodbye, to walk away and become nothing more than another colleague, another memory of family that didn’t last. Suddenly he can’t let that happen, has to delay it if only for a little while. “I think I’m gonna get a drink. You want to join?”

For a moment Bobbi looks as though she’s going to decline, thinking better of the whole thing, but then she shrugs. “What the hell.”

Two hours and too many shots later, Clint’s struggling to get the door to their old place--his now--unlocked, stumbling through it as Bobbi shoves him back against the wall to kiss him roughly, run her hands up under his shirt as she wrestles it over his head. Clint flicks open the button on her jeans, hikes her leg up over his hip and tries to forget that they’re surrounded by boxes, fucking in the midst of the debris that used to make up their life together.

2.

The next time he sees Bobbi for more than a passing moment, they’re hunkered down in a safe house in Kiev and everything is going to hell.

Bobbi’s got two fingers in one ear, struggling to hear Coulson’s voice through her damaged comms. Clint’s are already dead entirely, and he’s far more concerned with finding a way to stop the bleeding from the gash in his arm, courtesy of shrapnel from a grenade that missed taking his life by mere inches. He pulls off his shirt, ignoring the chill that immediately washes over his sweat-drenched skin, and starts ripping strips of fabric to bind the wound. He isn’t about to bleed out, but it hurts like hell and will probably be brewing a nice little infection by the time their extraction arrives in the morning. He does a quick sweep of the two supply cabinets, empty save for an abandoned bottle of vodka, which he grabs all the same.

Bobbi pulls the comm unit from her ear after a few minutes, throws it angrily onto the folding table that’s their only piece of furniture aside from the rickety cot in the far corner. 

“Good news?” Clint asks dryly.

She scoffs. “Scarlotti and his crew escaped. Morgan and Sanchez are dead. Extraction team’s still eight hours out, so it looks like we’re on our own for a while.”

“So it’s a party,” says Clint. “You hurt?”

Bobbi takes a breath and looks herself over, like she’s just now considering that question. Her tac suit’s singed on one shoulder and there’s ash caught in the ends of her hair, but overall she seems to have come through today’s fight the best of anyone.

“Pretty sure I’ll live.”

Clint uncaps the bottle of booze and takes a swig, deciding that if it kills him, at least he’ll have died for the right reasons today. “Painkiller?”

Bobbi crosses the room and takes it roughly out of his hands, tipping the bottle to the ceiling and swallowing deeply. She catches his gaze as she lowers it back to the surface of the table, and suddenly it feels as though the air’s been sucked from the room, as though the fact that he very nearly died today is suddenly sitting heavy on his chest. Bobbi reaches out all at once, rests her hand over his heart and then leans in to kiss him, loss and pain and uncertainty fading away as his pulse thunders in his ears.

3.

Clint is half expecting it when Bobbi arrives on the evening of his thirty-fifth birthday with a pizza and a six pack of beer. It’s gotten to be a pattern, weaving in and out of each other’s lives, nothing but silence in between.

This time they don’t even bother with pretenses, falling straight into this thing they’re caught in together. Bobbi sets the food down on his coffee table and has him pinned to the couch a minute later, clever fingers making quick work of his clothes. She sucks a bruise onto the hollow of his throat, and later Clint will wonder whether that means she’s no longer trying to hide this from the world or if she’s simply lost herself in the moment a bit too far. Clint cards his fingers into her hair, pulls her body close and traces the long lines of her back as he tries to make this last, tries to save it up and sear the memories into his mind for later, when he’s feeling too alone. 

Still, it doesn’t last long enough. Then again, it never has.

“Happy birthday,” Bobbi tells him, when she’s curled against his chest and they’re both still breathing hard. 

“I’m officially old now,” says Clint, smiling at her in a way he’s aware is probably a bit goofy, his head still floating in the afterglow.

“What are we doing?” she asks, moving to look up at him. Something in her eyes plants a seed of uncertainty in the pit of his stomach, starts it shifting toward a knot of anxiety. 

“Well,” says Clint, still trying to hold onto what they’ve got, trying to keep it a good thing, “I’m pretty sure we just had some damn good sex, and next we’re gonna eat a pizza. Unless that box you brought is a lie.”

Bobbi sighs heavily. “You know what I mean. What are we _doing_ , Clint? Are we just having fun, or--Where is this heading?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, swallowing. “Do we--Could we just not think about the future right now?”

He doesn’t miss the disappointment that flickers across her face, but Bobbi’s always been a master of disguising her emotions when she wants to. “Yeah. Sure.”

+1

Clint doesn’t attend Coulson’s funeral, strictly speaking. Fury’s made it clear that he would be welcome, but he isn’t ready to face his colleagues, isn’t ready to see the families of the other agents who have died at his hand.

Instead he stays in the parking lot, standing against his car in the too-bright afternoon, hiding behind dark sunglasses so he won’t have to meet anyone’s eyes. He watches as people gather, pouring into the church--as if anything about this ought to be religious--and then back out again. Most people walk right by him without a second glance, either unaware of his presence or thinking better of sharing any sort of close proximity with him. 

He thinks he should have expected it when Bobbi appears, though, moving to stand between him and the sun in her black dress. They haven’t spoken in months, beyond the minimum of workplace pleasantries, but she’s always managed to be around when he’s at his most raw.

“I heard about what happened,” she begins, and Clint laughs bitterly.

“Think there’s anyone who hasn’t?”

She shakes her head. “Not what I meant. How are you doing?”

“Thinking about a drink,” says Clint, because that’s the most honest he feels he can risk being today. “Want to join me?”

Bobbi sighs heavily. “No. Not for a drink.”

Clint shrugs, trying not to let her see that she’s managed to crush a moment’s foolish hope. “See you at work, then.”

He turns to climb into his car, stops when he feels her hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” says Bobbi, and her gaze has softened when he meets it again. “How about--Take a walk with me?”

Clint hesitates for a moment, but he’s never been able to resist a request from her. He nods once, takes her hand, and lets her lead the way.


End file.
